


Tomato Rice Soup

by readeption



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst?, Destiel if you squint - Freeform, M/M, deep internal musings, fluff?, is this a drabble, or read between the lines, this is just something I wrote on holiday in the Cotswolds, whatever works, who knows - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-19
Updated: 2014-11-23
Packaged: 2018-02-26 06:26:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 1,825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2641481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/readeption/pseuds/readeption
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>2x13 - 'She used to tell me when she tucked me in that angels were watching over us.'<br/>5x13 - 'When I would get sick, you would make me tomato rice soup, because that's what your mom made you. And instead of a lullaby, you would sing "Hey Jude", 'cause that's your favorite Beatles song.' <br/>A (technically) genderless angel watches over the events on Earth from Heaven. Pre-S4 and S4.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Before the Winchesters

There were some angels whom Hesediel knew to have contempt for humanity. They would never dare voice such thoughts to an archangel, or God himself, or to many other angels for that matter, for fear of being cast down into the depths of Hell as a blasphemer, a rebel, like Lucifer had been.

But Hesediel loved humanity. He knew he was not the only one. There were others – the leader of his garrison, Castiel, and Samandriel, and Anna, who had chosen to become human, who had once been even Castiel’s boss, and her decision to adopt the ways of the ‘hairless apes’ on Earth had always boggled Hesediel’s mind.

Yes, he loved humanity. But he also pitied them.

Many angels were ambivalent about the people who populated the land that their father had created, and if they were not ambivalent they were usually pessimistic. ‘They’re all miserable,’ they said. ‘There’s no happiness on Earth – only guilt, and confusion, and endless, aimless suffering.’ And after millennia with such remarks emerging everywhere Hesediel went, he believed them.

But there was one thing the humans had which the angels never did, and that was undeniable.

Free will.

It never ceased to amaze Hesediel, whenever he went down there, or became particularly focused on one little section – they did as they pleased, or at least, the affluent ones did. Some parts of Earth were horribly poor, and those who commanded those there were the worst of the worst of humanity, and those who lived under such conditions had crushed spirits, and quickly-quashed fantasies of rebellion, burdened day and night with rough labour and diseased food.  
In the affluent countries, though, people chose to do what they wished with their lives, and sometimes – a lot of the time, actually – they chose to do good. The followers of Hesediel’s father were often charitable, tolerant and kind, and even the humans who, after thousands of years and centuries of theological study, chose not to call themselves Christians, even those humans wished to help, and to save.

God, the force which had created and destroyed countless so-called ‘drafts’ of Earth before settling on this one, the force which had started everything, had also put monsters on the plains and mountains and tors and deserts and marshlands of Earth, and these monsters maimed, and killed, and hurt. But God had also put humans on Earth. And with the humans came the hunters.

They were the most tortured of them all, Hesediel believed. It often disheartened him to look at them, those who had often lost so much before saving so many, and sometimes they simply gave up, which was perhaps the saddest part of all, and Hesediel would find his vessel crying if he were ever to manifest it. It was a young man, hit by a bus on his way to MIT during his second semester, and he had spent months in a coma before Hesediel had arrived, and the man – Ogden, after the poet – had made a ‘miraculous recovery’.

Hesediel had seen true miracles, and what came after 1979 and 1983 were definitely two.


	2. The Union of John and Mary Winchester

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 5.14 - 'Yeah, the union of John and Mary Winchester? Very big deal upstairs, top priority arrangement. Mm.'

Hesediel, frankly, didn’t believe it was right. 

Dean Winchester needed to be born, however, and his brother also, and so it was destined that John and Mary would fall in love, as humans did, and fornicate, as humans did. 

Dean Winchester was a very important man, apparently, but nobody would tell Hesediel why, and he had a feeling that even Castiel did not know. 

They hated each other at first. He was a mechanic whose father had abandoned him; she was a hunter, and therefore Hesediel thought it was inadvisable for her to pursue any kind of relationship. Her father, too – Samuel (Hesediel didn’t think much of him) – disapproved. But despite his temper, and despite her family, they fell in love. 

Hesediel had just happened to be in the immediate vicinity when the whole sordid thing took place – Azazel; deal-making; Dean Winchester. Hesediel saw him for the first time, as he would be in thirty-five years’ time, and Hesediel was saddened, for Dean was as every bit as tormented as hunters almost always were – worse, in fact. Hesediel knew that Castiel had been involved in it somehow, and he was worried. 

Years passed. Sam was born. Six months passed. Mary died. The angels around Hesediel grew agitated. They kept much hidden from him, and he only heard snippets. Demon blood. Vessels. _Apocalypse._

Years passed. John, unknowing of Mary’s past, became a hunter himself, and raised his children in ‘the life’ as they all called it, and every time Hesediel turned to look upon the earth he was faced with a boy who was trapped to follow his father’s footsteps and a boy who wanted nothing else than to get out. 

Hesediel liked to watch happier people, people who were doing good in the world, but even doctors and nurses and charity workers often seemed to have inbuilt, inherent turmoil and feelings of inadequacy. World leaders struggled with the immorality of others, the conflict of interests. Children and teenagers were ungrateful. 

It was rare, but Hesediel, secretly, thought that it was what made the whole thing worthwhile. Sometimes, he would look upon a person – a young child, or a teenager, or sometimes an adult – who was so, so kind, and never longed to be cruel to anybody, but who was shunned by their peers or felt caught up in a world of harsh people with no compassion, and so who dragged themselves through the days trying to do good without quite knowing why. 

Sometimes, they prayed to God. They prayed to angels. But nobody was listening anymore.


	3. Hell Besieged

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 4x09 - 'First words I heard, clear as a bell -- "Dean Winchester is saved."'

Hesediel had apparently not been keeping up.

In the midst of all his eternal musings on humanity and variation, the Winchesters had undergone three especially tumultuous years, beginning with John narrowing down his search for Azazel and ending with Dean being dragged to Hell after selling his soul to bring his brother back to life. It was all very complicated but basically – long story short – Sam was part of a group of people who had demon blood, part of a plan that none of the angels Hesediel consorted with, none of them fully comprehended; they were destined, as part of a long bloodline stretching back to Cain and Abel, Michael and Lucifer – to be their vessels in the coming Apocalypse.

Hesediel still felt slightly overwhelmed by that term. If it was anything like the last time... His multi-dimensional wavelength of celestial intent shuddered.

There were a lot of details of which Hesediel had only heard scraps. _Seals. Torture._ And then, an instruction: _Retrieve Dean Winchester’s soul from the Burning Pits of Hell._

It had gone out to all angels. Every single one heard. Every single one obeyed.

But only one succeeded.

Hesediel had never been, but he didn’t fancy it much as a holiday destination. There were sounds: flaying flesh, screaming, begs for mercy, lashes of whips, slices of knives, gurgling, laughter. There were smells: burning skin, sweat, coppery blood, the saline build-up of salty tears, and the place was hot, and damp, and everything had a thick layer of blood over it, whether it be fresh, or congealed, or scabbed over.

Hesediel saw Dean’s soul, briefly, before the angels crowded around it. It glowed, dimly. The man was laughing, slicing, _torturing._ The angels sighed. They hadn’t got there in time. They hesitated, fell back.

Castiel flew forwards. He must have seen – Hesediel _knew_ he _must_ have seen – that Dean had taken the fatal step, that Dean had broken the first seal, that Dean was, to all the host of Heaven, to Michael, to Raphael, irredeemable, incapable of redemption – useless. The angels gave up. But Castiel did not.

He lay his hand upon Dean’s shoulder, and Hesediel heard the man yell out, and drop his implements, and there were no sounds for a moment, no smells, and Hell was not hot or damp or bloody – all that could be seen, even in the furthest reaches of Damnation, even for the worst, most deserving, most depraved souls, was a pure, cool, white glow, blocking out the fire and the pain, blocking out the evil, leaving only salvation in its wake, and the words of Castiel, loud and clear, boomed over the network that the Winchesters would later refer to as ‘angel radio’: _Dean Winchester is saved._

And Hesediel knew – he did not suspect, he did not wonder, he did not suppose, he _knew_ – that Castiel was different.


	4. Lazarus Rising

Hesediel watched as the ground broke up, as a filthy, masculine hand shot up through the mulch. Castiel’s endeavour had not gone unnoticed by the world around Dean’s grave. Trees had fallen in a perfect circle, as if thunderstruck. Dean’s face was contorted as he climbed out of the ground.

Hesediel wondered at what was to come.

*

Dean was reunited with his brother. Castiel watched, too, beside Hesediel.

‘The boy with the demon blood,’ he said quietly.

Hesediel turned to him. ‘What will happen now?’

Castiel shook his head. ‘I do not know.’

As they spoke, and watched, the trio of Dean, Sam and Bobby consulted Pamela, and then Castiel was agitated beside him – ‘Go back, go back’ – but the woman did not stop, and she said ‘Castiel’ and Hesediel watched as Dean’s expression changed, and then – ‘Go back, go back’ – ‘You can’t scare me, Castiel’ – and Castiel appeared to her in his true visage, and she screamed, and her eyes were set aflame.

Castiel shook beside him. ‘They are competent,’ he said. ‘They will try to summon me.’

‘Will you tell him?’ The unspoken words were delivered nonetheless. _Are you going to tell him that he broke the first seal?_

Castiel shook his head. ‘Not yet. I will tell him that we need him, because we do, because God has plans for him.’

Castiel paused, and thought for a moment. Then, quietly, resignedly, ‘The righteous man who begins it is the only one who can end it.’

Hesediel nodded.

Sure enough, they did try to summon Castiel. The seraph beside Hesediel vanished, and Hesediel’s gaze was drawn from a scene at Beachy Head in East Sussex, England, where a middle-aged woman was trying – and it looked, to Hesediel’s joy, like she was succeeding – to talk a teenage boy out of throwing himself off, to a barn in Pontiac, Illinois, USA.

And Lord, he was fearsome. If Hesediel had been Dean Winchester, he would have been terrified. The shadow thrown by Castiel’s wings, wings that could not appear in the human plane of Earth, stretched out across the dark, tattooed barn, and then:

‘Who are you?’

‘I’m the one who gripped you tight and raised you from perdition.’

‘Yeah? Thanks for that.’

Stab. Hesediel laughed, alone on his platform, looking down on the world, and as Castiel extracted the knife, expression not changing a fraction, Hesediel’s laughter flew into the air, dipping and diving and swirling.

**Author's Note:**

> References: the poet is Ogden Nash, American author of my favourite poem, 'To my Valentine'. We also share a birthday.  
> Beachy Head is a real place. It's a cliff, and is either the highest or one of the highest in the country, in Sussex, which is in the far south of England. Because of its height, a lot of people go there to kill themselves, and there's plainclothes patrollers in the area who stop them, which I thought was brilliant. Hesediel strikes me as someone who'd think that too.  
> This fic was started in early August when my family and I went to the south-west of England (Somerset, Wiltshire, Oxfordshire) to see Stonehenge and Stourhead and some other nice landmarks, and I wrote most of this lying on a really creaky bed in a youth hostel between outings. I'd originally planned for it to be longer, and I have snippets like this for the angsty bits of S6 and S7, but I couldn't lengthen them into a full fic, and this felt like a nice point to finish it. I couldn't start it again now because I'm just not in that place anymore and it's been nearly 4 months :)  
> anyway, I hope you enjoyed it.


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